


For I Am Lovesick

by ObliObla



Series: Obli's Fuckruary 2020 [8]
Category: Lucifer (TV)
Genre: Anal Sex, Dom/sub, Established Relationship, F/M, Fuckruary 2020 (Lucifer TV), Riding Crops, Rope Bondage, Smut
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2020-02-08
Updated: 2020-02-08
Packaged: 2021-02-28 06:22:23
Rating: Explicit
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 3,592
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/22619323
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/ObliObla/pseuds/ObliObla
Summary: The detective has such a lovely arse.
Relationships: Chloe Decker/Lucifer Morningstar
Series: Obli's Fuckruary 2020 [8]
Series URL: https://archiveofourown.org/series/1619344
Comments: 23
Kudos: 232





	For I Am Lovesick

**Author's Note:**

> Day 7! Prompt: Butts/Analplay

The detective has such a lovely arse.

Lucifer runs the end of the riding crop over the swell of her wonderfully round bottom and sweeps upward, lightly caressing her sweet inner lips. She breathes noisily, pulling at the restraints tying her wrists to the headboard. But the bindings hold firm. Of course, they do; he tied them. She lies in the center of the penthouse's bed, arms splayed out, legs pulled up against her chest.

He swaps sides, brushing the cuffs that bind her ankles before running the crop along the ropes that press her calves and thighs and taut stomach together, checking their fit and tightness as he goes. He skims her knees, her collarbones, her throat, and comes to settle the crop over her lips, which she purses against the leather. He gives them a slight tap, and her eyes pop open.

She looks a little dazed and _very_ relaxed, and he smiles down at her. “How are you doing, love?”

She hums, wriggling in a way that is highly distracting, before saying, “I’d be doing better if you were touching me.”

“So impatient,” he sighs, brushing hair from her sweaty face, and drops the crop on the bed. He kisses her, slipping his tongue into her mouth to run along her teeth, before reaching out to check the fit of her wrist bindings.

“Come _on,_ Lucifer,” she whines as he pulls away and picks the crop back up.

He ignores her, returning to that delectable arse. He lightly taps the exposed parts of her thighs before trailing the crop down to mark out strikes against her bottom. Slowly, he increases the intensity until she’s vocalizing her breaths.

He pauses as she gasps, moving back up to her head to tip her chin up and meet her eyes. “Color, love?”

She exhales shakily. “Green.”

“Lovely.” He perches on the end of the bed and considers her. “I’m going to do ten, and I want you to count these, darling. We’ll have to start over if you misspeak.”

He waits a beat for a _red,_ but when she doesn’t respond, he brings the crop down with a delightful _smack._ A pale red mark shines on her flesh.

She tenses, then relaxes. “One,” she says quite calmly.

He adjusts his aim and paints an identical mark on the other cheek.

“Two.”

The third is a little higher on the opposite side, overlapping the existing strike enough to make her whimper.

But, “Three,” she says confidently.

The same on the other side, and…

“Four.”

As soon as the word leaves her lips, he levels a strike at the same spot as the first.

“F-five,” she chokes out.

Another, just as fast, on the other side.

 _“...six,”_ she whispers, and she contracts hard, inner lips trembling.

He takes a moment to run the crop up her vulva, delivering a soft pat to her clitoris.

“Seven,” she crows, his cheeky detective. He hadn’t intended for her to count that.

He leaves another mark closer in, where the nerves are more sensitive, and, “Eight!” she shouts.

Another on the other side. “N…” She hisses in a breath, clenching with her heartbeat now. “Ni…” she tries, but doesn’t quite get there.

“I guess we’ll have to start over,” he says in a low, pretend-disappointed voice.

She whines wordlessly.

He aims again for the spot where arse meets thigh and snaps the crop against it hard.

“Yellow!” she cries. He lightens his hand and redirects to a less intense spot, but when she only inhales roughly, he drops the crop and crawls back up the bed, nuzzling her neck and running a reassuring hand up her side. She shakes and pants and moans, and he holds her through it. Her eyes stutter open, and he makes himself utterly calm.

“Lucifer…” she groans.

“Hello, love. Back with me?”

She nods jerkily.

“Ready to get back at it?” She arches her back as well as she can with the restraints, and he hums, watching her. “Is that a yes, then?”

She arches an eyebrow, and he chuckles, removing his hand from where it rests against her hip and moving away. She whines in the back of her throat, and he knows she’s trying to get him to touch her without having to ask.

“Again with this?” he teases, and she huffs out a breath. “Ask for what you want, love,” he sing-songs, getting off the bed and dropping the riding crop to sit with the toys they pulled out for the evening’s entertainment.

“Your fingers,” she bites out eventually.

“And?” It’s not hard to see her desires when she telegraphs them so plainly, but it’s more fun to make her recite them, so much better than prayer.

“Tongue,” she whispers, pressing her head into the mattress.

 _“And…?”_

A flush rises in her cheeks. It's frankly adorable how flustered she still gets asking for these things. “The… pink one.”

He chuckles but takes pity on her, plucking the vibrating butt plug from the half dozen of those he’d brought down from their customary shelf. One day, he hopes she will feel comfortable stating her desires plainly, as shameless as if he drew them from her lips, but sweeter, because they will be given freely. Until then, he will devote himself to her comfort and her pleasure, to burning every fig leaf she feels compelled to wear.

Even before the fall there was shame. Even in Heaven there were downcast eyes and fear. But there need not be any here.

He returns to her with her chosen item as well as the simple remote and the appropriate lubricant, laying them out on the bed. But before slicking his fingers, before massaging her entrance until she accepts him, before pressing the plug home, he caresses the soft flesh of her arse, using enough pressure that she shivers, but not enough to hurt. He traces the marks he made, soothing away her aches before reaching for the lube.

When he settles the plug inside her, she sighs. But he doesn’t pick up the remote, instead reaching for an especially thick pillow. He undoes her ankle bindings quickly, lifts her body with a hand against her lower back, and slips the pillow under her. They could have placed it there beforehand, but he knows how much she enjoys the freedom of having someone else control her motions. He reties the restraints before she can stretch her legs, and she tests them, pulling the lines taut.

She enjoys the feeling of testing her bounds as much as he does, pushing the boundaries, teasing at the edges of structure and control. This is something they share that she denied herself for so long, believing it dangerous, and the world did its best to make that true. But here, in their bed, he can assure her safety.

She tenses and relaxes, and he wonders if the plug is uncomfortable, until he peers at her face, at the mischievous concentration waiting there. Her impatience surprises him, sometimes, coming seemingly out of nowhere. She keeps herself so tightly controlled much of the time, forcing herself to be the responsible one; no wonder the release tastes so sweet.

The angle is somewhat awkward, but he has enough experience to not be fazed as he lowers himself to lap up her wetness, press his tongue deep until she hums her pleasure, and glide the tip of his tongue toward her apex to fasten his lips around her clit. She tightens, then calms, and he brings his fingers into play, slipping two inside to thrust against her g-spot. She tries to buck her hips but can’t get the leverage, and he chuckles into his work, bringing her steadily higher.

When her breathing evens out, he grabs the remote with his free hand and turns on the vibrator. She cries out, clenching around his fingers, and he slows, working her through it. “That’s right,” he groans against her throbbing clit as she rocks, denied any other motion. “That’s right, Chloe.”

She keens in pleasure and frustration both, and he redoubles his efforts, dragging her to the edge. _”Oh,”_ she moans. “Oh, oh, _oh.”_ Her muscles ripple around him as he stills, tongue gently flicking her clit every few moments to prolong her release. As her aftershocks end, he turns down—but not off—the vibration of the butt plug.

She shivers, and he rises from the bed, grabs a waiting, slightly damp cloth, and rejoins her. He runs the cloth over her brow and cheeks and neck, cooling her down, then carefully wipes her chest, her arms, and what he can reach of her legs. He quickly scrubs his face clean with the opposite side and tosses the cloth onto the floor.

“Color?”

“Green,” she says through a yawn.

“Oh, not tired already, are we?”

She fixes him with a half-hearted glare. “Maybe you’re just boring.”

 _Ah._ This game, is it? He reaches down and sharply smacks her arse, right over the brightest of the marks.

“Ow!” she cries, glare intensifying.

“Boring enough for you?” He runs his tongue over the inside of his teeth, giving her his best smolder. He’s spent millennia perfecting it, and even Chloe—frustratingly and delightfully immune to _most_ of his charms—isn’t entirely immune to _that._ At least, not when he’s got her bound and restrained.

She wriggles her hips, giving him back _her_ most seductive look, which is mildly absurd, but he’s so gone on her his cock twitches in his trousers anyway. _That_ only succeeds in reminding him of his own desire, and it’s all he can do to not shuck his shirt and trousers, instead palming himself roughly.

She watches his motions and licks her lips. _Hell._ For someone so useless at flirting, she can be excellent at seduction. Or maybe he’s just a lovesick fool. She tips her head back, exposing the long line of her throat, and he’s halfway to bending down to kiss it when he remembers himself. “Very naughty, darling,” he breathes.

She pouts when he withdraws.

He retrieves more ropes and supplies and returns to her. He undoes the restraints that bind her legs to her chest, and she sighs as the pressure releases, flexing and stretching her legs. He watches her as she lets them fall to the mattress, partially because he certainly wasn’t lying when he said he was a leg man, but also to ensure that she’s not in any pain. She readjusts her hips on the pillow and hisses as her movements change the angle of the plug still buzzing inside her. 

“Lucifer,” she mutters as he ties a few preliminary knots, “I think I could come again just like this.”

He glances at her, and she writhes and moans, some of it performance, but much of it quite maddeningly real. He watches her drive herself higher, still not able to use her hands, rubbing her thighs together reflexively, grinding against the pillow underneath her. When her moans rise in pitch and turn breathy, he turns off the vibrator and seizes her by her ankle restraint, snapping the less-than-Gordian knot in two and pulling her legs apart.

“No,” she gasps, hips working ineffectively without the leverage he’s denying her.

He smiles down at her. “Not yet, love.”

 _“Urgh.”_ She throws her head back and shuts her eyes.

He bends her knees slowly, splaying them out on either side, and fastens a spreader bar between her ankles with a series of careful knots. He binds her calves to her thighs again and settles between her spread legs. And then, he waits.

She drags her head off the pillow to stare at him.

He smirks. “What, darling?”

She bites her bottom lip and rolls her hips.

He sweeps his hands from ankles to knees and back up, stilling when he reaches her inner thighs.

She groans. “Lucifer…”

He bypasses where she wants him, sliding up her hips, her waist, cupping her breasts. She arches her back, and he thumbs her nipples, dragging the pads of his fingertips against them over and over until she cries out.

“You make the loveliest sounds, Chloe, darling.”

There’s a word waiting on her tongue, like honey, like paradise, like a sliver of fruit she’s been told to not desire, but she can’t help it. _He_ can’t help it; he never has been able to step up to that ledge and not dive headlong flaming, hoping to fall forever and never land. But he holds himself back for the sake of her pleasure, whispers, “What do you desire?” even though it holds no sway over her.

And, even though it _does_ hold no sway over her, she allows it to, allows him control over the font of her desires. Her trust in him, as she pants and whines and stares into his eyes, seizes his breath and renders him mortal. A supplicant at the altar of her miraculous faith. And then she speaks, and there is nothing in the vast span of the universe but her words, shining like the stars.

“Please, Lucifer. _Please,_ fuck me.”

And _oh,_ there is something so much kinder than grace in it.

He trails his hand down her stomach to tease her entrance, avoiding her clit entirely. “First, I think I will fuck your lovely pussy,” he tells her. “Then”—he taps the butt plug hard enough she shivers from the pressure—”I’ll remove this delightful implement and take your arse as well. Now, how does that sound?”

She moans, long and low, breath hitching when he returns to press two fingers into her and twist. She cleans her throat and says hoarsely, “Sounds like a lot of talk.”

Oh, his brilliant, headstrong detective. How joyous it will be when she gives in fully.

He withdraws again to stand at the foot of the bed. She whines, well beyond the point that such a sound would cause embarrassment. There’s such freedom in it, and his head swims, trousers unbearably tight. But his pleasure isn’t what matters right now. He unfastens the buttons of his shirt one by one, eyes fixed on hers. He unbuttons the sleeves and pulls his shirt from his trousers, sliding it slowly down his arms to fall to the floor.

Everything he has learned in his many millennia he devotes to her.

“Mm, Lucifer,” she hums. It’s a ploy to get him to speed up, but he ignores it, removing his socks with utmost care. He unbuttons his trousers and slowly takes down the zipper. When he slips them off, he inhales sharply, freed from that cruel pressure. He climbs between her legs again, and watches her muscles contract helplessly. He inhales and lets a smile spread across his face. “You smell so wonderful, love.”

She rolls her body, hips shifting restlessly. “Please, please…”

But she’s not quite there yet, not to the place he wants her. The place she asks for. He takes his cock in hand, gritting his teeth against the pleasure of it, and rubs his head over her lips, up and down, feeling her heat, her wetness, resisting the urge to press inside.

Her commentary grows less and less coherent as he adds a slow rhythm to his motions, grinding against her. When her eyes slip closed, he drags his cock up to rock against her clit. At first, her hips meet his thrusts in counterpoint, but as he lets minutes past in this moment of slow teasing, her movements stop, her legs sag back to the mattress, and she keens weakly. A nearly imperceptible tension leaves her shoulders, and she shudders sweetly.

Only then does he reposition himself and slowly press inside. She tightens around him reflexively, and he moans from the pressure, watching her lips part as his hips meet hers. He waits for her to adjust, waits for her to start moving against him again, but she only lies still, eyes closed, mouth working against the air, and he knows she’s reached that place of surrender. 

He takes a deep breath and proceeds to keep her there as long as he can, thrusting slowly, grinding at the end of every stroke. He grips her by the hips and increases his speed ever so slightly, a rolling motion that drags him under too. When her inner muscles start tensing, he moves more roughly against her, following her lead, helping her to follow his. She is so hot and tight around him he wants to close his eyes and give in, but still he watches her, can’t bring himself to look away.

Her orgasm is a subtle thing; almost silent, compared to her other peaks. She merely gasps, tongue licking ineffectively at her lips. He clenches his jaw, holding off his own release. _Not yet. Not yet. Not yet._

When she slips even further into her drop, he carefully pulls out, trying to not disturb her, and turns to the butt plug. He seizes it and works it out of her slowly. She gasps again, but doesn’t open her eyes, and he reaches for the lube. He presses three slick fingers into her, twisting, and she takes them easily, moaning again. She is so open and willing beneath him, trusting him enough to show him this, to show him _her,_ without walls and shame and all the lies of a garden of paradise.

But this is their paradise, for however long they’re allowed it, and he will tempt and be tempted as he desires, as _she_ desires. And they will not be afraid. He slicks himself up and slides slowly inside, pausing when he comes flush with her glorious buttocks again. She sighs, long and content, and he starts up a slow rhythm that builds and builds and builds until he’s clutching at the pale pink marks left by the crop, pulling her back out of her trance.

The slight pain wakes her, and she cries out, chin lifting, jaw dropping. She claws at her restraints and howls when she’s denied the stabilizing impulse of touch. With his clean hand, he reaches forward and holds her breast, kneading the flesh, and she calms. He returns to her bottom and rubs against the marks.

“Color?” he asks, voice hoarse.

“Green,” she breathes.

He increases his rhythm and delivers a sharp smack to her arse. The sensation ripples into his cock as she clenches, and he swears. “Color?” he bites out.

“Green.”

Again and again, he brings his hand down, then strokes away the pain, even as his thrusts grow wilder and less controlled.

“Lucifer,” she gasps. “Lucifer, Lucifer…”

“Chloe,” he whispers back, then abandons any elegance to grasp her hips and drive forward, faster and faster, all thoughts leaving his mind but her, her, _her._

“I’m so close, I… Lucifer, I'm so close.”

“Yes, yes…” he mutters, lost to breath, to thought, to… so close, so close, _so close,_ and…

His body stiffens, cock throbbing with his pulse, and with his last scrap of conscious thought he reaches down with his cleaner hand and rubs tight circles into her clit, dragging her over the edge after him. His head falls to rest between her breasts, and she shudders beneath him. Instead of undoing all his carefully constructed knots, he uses all the wherewithal he has left to snap the bindings around her wrists, tear away the spreader bar, and shred the ropes holding her legs together, until they’re a pile of limbs and exhaustion surrounded by fraying rope.

“I need a shower, but I don’t think I can walk,” Chloe mumbles from beneath him.

“Mmf,” Lucifer grumbles. He works up enough energy to stand and pull her into his arms. He stumbles blearily down the hallway and through the closet, into the bathroom. He pulls the tap for the bathtub, and steam begins to rise as it fills. He settles them both into the water, and she groans, resting her head back against his chest.

He washes her hair in silence, cupping water to pour over her head. She sighs and slips into a light sleep. He snags a washcloth off the nearby counter and cleans the rest of her body, 

“Mm,” she hums as he drains away the worst of the suds and refills the tub.

“You can go back to sleep,” he whispers in her ear. “I’ve got you.”

But she’s moving, turning in his arms to kneel, facing him. She presses a kiss to his lips, traces his mouth with her fingertips, and says, “Thank you for taking care of me.”

“Of course. I—”

But she shakes her head, slipping her forefinger against his lips. _“Thank_ you.”

He sits up straight and presses his forehead against hers, staring into her eyes. “I will always take care of you.”

This kiss is different, slower, softer. His eyes slip closed, and he gives himself to this contact, to this moment. When their eyes open, a tear slips down her cheek, but he doesn’t pull away, lets it land against his skin, painting his flesh with its tenderness

So many people he has had in his bed, in his arms, but as Chloe turns to lie back against his chest and he plays idly with her hair, he knows that this is how love ought to be, this is how trust ought to feel. That she has seen all of him, _known_ all of him, and here she rests, in this paradise of their own making, without thought, without care. WIthout fear.

 _Nothing_ has ever been sweeter than that.


End file.
